The Lidiana Arena was less a stadium and more a pit carved into the earth, ringed by rough wooden bleachers that groaned under the weight of the shouting masses. Dust hung in the air like a permanent fog, tasting of copper and old sweat.
Andrew sat near the front, his elbows resting on his knees. Beside him, Bruce sat like a boulder, his arms crossed, Anna perched safely on his lap watching with wide, curious eyes.
"Violent bunch," Bruce muttered as the crowd roared.
Below them, the sand was already stained. The first few matches had been brutal displays of strength—men in heavy plate armor bashing each other with maces and broadswords until one couldn't stand. It was clumsy, loud, and exhausting to watch.
"Next!" the announcer bellowed, a portly man standing on a raised wooden platform. "Facing the Iron Bull... the returning hopeful... Evangeline!"
A ripple of laughter moved through the stands. Jeers rained down, accompanied by a few thrown apple cores.
From the eastern gate, the "Iron Bull"—a towering man clad in thick chainmail and wielding a warhammer—stomped out, raising his arms to soak in the cheers.
From the western gate, silence walked in.
Evangeline stepped onto the sand. She looked to be no older than twenty, but she carried herself with the stillness of a veteran. Her hair was the first thing Andrew noticed—a vivid, crimson red, tied back but loose enough that strands whipped around her face in the wind.
She wore no armor. No chainmail, no plate. Just a fitted leather vest over a dark tunic, trousers, and boots. It was a suicide kit against a warhammer.
"She's going to get crushed," a spectator behind Andrew shouted.
Evangeline ignored them. Her face was a mask of cold indifference. She didn't look at the crowd; she looked only at the Iron Bull.
At her hip hung a curved scabbard, lacquered in a deep, unsettling red.
"Begin!" the announcer screamed.
The Iron Bull didn't hesitate. He charged, roaring, swinging the hammer in a wide, crushing arc intended to break ribs and end the fight in seconds.
Evangeline didn't flinch. She didn't even draw her weapon—not yet.
At the last possible second, she stepped. Just a single step, sliding to the left. The hammer slammed into the sand where she had been a heartbeat before, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The crowd gasped.
The Bull growled, wrenching his weapon free and spinning for a backhand strike. Again, Evangeline moved. She flowed like liquid, ducking under the swing with an efficiency that made the large man look like he was moving through molasses.
Then, she reached for her hip.
The sound of the blade leaving the sheath wasn't a metallic rasp; it was a hiss.
The sword was a katana, slightly longer than average, its metal not silver, but a dark, pulsating crimson. It caught the sunlight and seemed to drink it in. The blade looked eager. Thirsty.
The Bull swung again, overextended and angry.
Evangeline stopped dodging. She stepped in.
It was a blur of red motion. She didn't block the hammer; she bypassed it. She spun inside his guard, the crimson katana flashing in a tight, upward arc.
*Shhhk.*
She was already past him, standing ten feet away, her back to the opponent. She flicked the blade once, sending a spray of blood onto the dry sand, and slowly sheathed it with a sharp click.
Behind her, the Iron Bull stood frozen. Slowly, the straps of his chainmail chest piece severed. Then, a thin red line appeared across his torso. His knees buckled, and he collapsed face-first into the dust, groaning but alive. It was a precise, surgical strike—deep enough to incapacitate, shallow enough to spare his life.
The arena went dead silent. The jeers died in throats.
Evangeline turned her head slightly, her crimson hair veiling her eyes. She looked up at the announcer, her expression unchanged. Cold. Bored.
"Winner!" the announcer squeaked, stunned. "Evangeline!"
She didn't celebrate. She simply turned and walked back toward the dark tunnel of the western gate, leaving the stunned crowd—and the bleeding giant—behind her.
"Papa," Anna whispered, tugging Bruce's beard. "The lady is scary."
"Aye," Bruce nodded, his eyes narrowed as he watched the girl disappear into the shadows. "That's a dangerous one. She doesn't fight to win. She fights to kill, but chose not to."
Andrew let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His heart was hammering against his ribs, mirroring the rhythm of the dream he'd had. The grace. The speed. The deadly dance.
"That's her," Andrew said quietly.
Bruce looked at him. "She's reckless. No armor. Just speed."
"She didn't need armor," Andrew replied, standing up. "She didn't get hit."
He grabbed his pack. "I'm going to the fighters' pits. We need to talk to her before her next match."